The LA Life
by Twilight Phantom Dragon
Summary: Life has its highs and its lows. It is made up of both mundane and epic moments. Enter this collection of drabbles and one-shots depicting those moments. Genre, rating, and pairing vary.
1. There's a Chill in My Heart

**Characters: Angel**

**Pairing: Darla/Angel**

**Time: During "Reprise" **

**Warnings: Language **

**Additional Notes: Since I've already started a collection for my Buffy drabbles, I figured I should make a collection for Angel drabbles as well. So here we go! Stories will vary in rating, genre, and pairing. This one is an introspective look into Angel's mind at the end of "Reprise". **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Angel. Joss Whedon does. **

**There's a Chill in My Heart**

Evil. Everyone, every single person in the damn city, the whole damn world, was evil. In varying degrees, of course, but in the end, evil still lurked in everyone.

The thought reverberated through Angel's head. As he strode through the streets, he stared at the hapless humans. At their pain, at their anger, at their hopelessness as they dragged their way through a meaningless existence.

It was all for nothing.

The thought chilled him and even though a part of him wanted to care, he didn't. He just couldn't dredge up an ounce of compassion for the creatures around him.

The world wasn't white and black. It was just shades of gray and then some truly black stains. He could try to fight, to eliminate evil from the globe, but in the end, what did it matter? Humans would always find evil in their hearts and nothing would change. It would just stay the same.

Everything had been easier back when he had been soulless. Back then, it had been simple: slaughter, torture, and pleasure. Now it was just pain and despair and the ever-present chill that all the trying in the world wouldn't let him redeem himself or save the world.

Because it was impossible. Because truly destroying evil was beyond them all. It was just a hopeless fight with no end and no reward. Why did it even matter?

Answer: it didn't. In the end, it didn't matter a flying fuck. Nothing he could do would help them or the world lift itself from its despondency. They were all damned.

When he arrived home, he heard the phone ring. Ignoring it, he listened vacantly to Kate's words. The words did nothing to him. She wanted to do it, fine, as if he cared whether or not she killed herself. Maybe she had the right idea – get out of the world as fast as possible.

Angel trudged up the stairs and there he saw her. Darla. He didn't feel any anger or sadness or really anything else seeing her. However, a small voice in his head whispered, _Take her. _

Nothing mattered. Absolutely nothing. All his struggles were futile. All his fighting was worthless. So why? Why should he continue to walk in the path of light if it all came down to absolutely nothing?

He needed to feel something. Anything. And since evil couldn't really be expunged from the earth's surface, why should he continue to deny himself his simple desires? Why should he shy away from what he wanted?

With that, Angel shoved her against the wall and kissed her. He wanted her and whether it was a desire to feel something or just an acknowledgement of the futility or a mixture of the two, he took her.


	2. He Had Some Spare Time

**Characters: Wesley, Lilah, Justine**

**Pairing: Wes/Lilah (but not a focus)**

**Time: Shortly after the end of season 3**

**Warnings: Implied sex**

**Additional Notes: I was watching "Deep Down" and this practically started to write itself in my head. I did some editing to fix it up, but it nearly wrote itself. **

**Disclaimer: These are Joss Whedon's toys. I'm just playing with them. **

**He Had Some Spare Time**

They lay together in bed, chests rising and falling with each heavy breath. This had become a more common occurrence between the pair though Lilah never stuck around long after and Wesley never wanted her to anyway. Usually conversation was sparse and when it did come around, it was always business. Tonight was no exception.

"Where'd Angel go?"

Angel. The one topic Wesley least wished to discuss these days.

His eyes closed and he murmured, "I don't know and frankly I don't care."

"Oh…" Lilah frowned and pulled herself out of bed.

Wesley's eyes shot open and he glared at her. "I thought Wolfram and Hart made a habit of keeping a tab on him." That she was asking him of all people meant that she really didn't know and that was a bad sign.

"We do, but he disappeared. I thought you might have had something to do with it, but I guess not." She pulled her shirt back on. "Do you know where he might've gone?"

"If I did, I certainly wouldn't tell you."

Wesley's mind was spinning, thinking through the long list of Angel's enemies. There were so many options, so many different motivations for wanting the vampire to disappear. Well, he reasoned, there was no reason for him to get involved. It wasn't his problem that the vampire had disappeared.

"Do you even care?" Lilah asked, finishing up the buttons on her jacket.

He didn't reply and she left with a smirk. No, that chapter of his life was over and he wouldn't be getting involved. This was something Fred, Gunn, and Cordelia would have to work out on their own. He was done.

(-+-+-)

Despite his previous convictions that he was through with Angel and all business related to the vampire, Wesley's feet took him to the hotel. He stared at the exterior, recalling when they'd first decided the place would be their new headquarters. Back when things had been simpler and he'd been happier.

Wesley shook the thoughts from his head. He could see Fred and Gunn through the window. They were talking; both anxious. His lips tightened as Fred began to sob and Gunn pulled her into an embrace.

_They're not my responsibility anymore. _And although he made himself turn away from the hotel, he couldn't get Angel and the rest of the crew out of his mind.

(-+-+-)

As hard as he tried to forget about them, he couldn't. In his spare time, which was most of his time now that he was out of a job, he caught himself contemplating what could've happened to the vampire and what would happen to L.A. now that its champion was missing.

Always his mind came back to Justine. She had the motivation; she had the fire. Would it be enough? Wesley didn't know, but he would ask her.

It was impossible not to get involved. Of course, he couldn't go to the hotel and ask to join in with Fred and Gunn. He'd do things on his own. He told himself it was because he owed so much to Angel. Because it was for the good of mankind, for the jolly good fight.

Whatever his reasoning, he confronted Justine.

"What did you to Angel?" While he still wasn't sure that she was responsible, he found an outright accusation yielded better results.

"I didn't do anything." She spat. However, there was a wariness in her eyes that told Wesley she was lying.

Wesley backhanded her, sending her crashing into the wall. "What did you do?"

When she didn't answer, he lashed out again and again until she finally choked out the story. It had been Connor's idea. Lock Angel up in a metal box and drop him into the ocean. Some more beating got the rest of the story out of her. Holtz had ordered her to kill him. She had done it and then she'd told Connor that Angel had killed the man. From there, everything had tumbled into place.

At the end, she grinned at him, "You'll never find him."

"Maybe." Wesley admitted. "But you'll be helping me until we do."

"You think I'd actually help you?" Justine laughed.

"Not out of your own free will. But you've always been a slave, so it's nothing new." That quieted Justine down.

She lunged at him, but Wesley was too quick and managed to land a heavy blow to her head. She fell to the ground, out cold.

Wesley sighed. When he had come here, he had been looking for information alone. He hadn't meant to get involved, but now it was too late to back down and he really didn't feel like giving up anyway. He'd find Angel and then he'd leave Angel Investigations behind him forever.


	3. Food for the Soul

**Characters: Lorne**

**Pairing: None**

**Time: Pre-series**

**Warnings: None**

**Additional Notes: Because Lorne is awesome. **

**Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns them, not me. **

**Food for the Soul**

One minute he'd been hiding in the woods from his brother Numfar and the next he was in a strange building. There'd been a strange portal and now he was somewhere… new.

"Anyone here?" Lorne called out, his eyes surveying the abandoned building. There was dust everywhere, circling in the air and coating every surface. Still, it sure beat Pylea.

When he didn't get an answer, he pushed himself up and walked to the stairs. There was an artificial light streaming down. Curious and quite a bit frightened, Lorne edged his way up the staircase.

And that's when he heard it. The melodic strumming, beautiful notes unlike the war bellows and drums back home. Lorne followed the sound outside into the warm night. He needed to find the source of this sound.

Lorne followed it. If it wasn't for these beautiful sounds, he would have been interested in his surroundings. All the metal and cement and asphalt, all the buildings standing so tall. However, he was too entranced by this sound to bother paying his environment much attention. He was the starvation victim finding a king's banquet.

The sound came from a man in a large overcoat, sitting with his back against the wall and plucking a strange device's strings. Lorne watched in fascination as the man's fingers produced such notes with the strings. Sadly he reflected on how he didn't have a word to describe this.

"What is it?" Lorne asked.

The man glanced at the green demon and then answered in a mellow voice, "Music, man. It's music."

"Music…" They didn't have anything like this back in Pylea. Everything there was harsh and brutal. Beauty like this, if it even rose up, was always squashed down as quickly as possible.

Unable to resist, Lorne began to hum softly. It only took a few moments for him to get into the beat and then his humming fell into perfect harmony with the strumming. It felt so good, better than anything he'd felt in Pylea.

The man stopped playing. He watched the demon continue to hum before nodding in approval, "You've got a lovely set of pipes, man. You should practice them."

Lorne grinned. This new world, despite all its strangeness, would be his new home right now. He was never going back to Pylea no matter how hard things got. But most of all, he was going to learn about this thing called music and let it flourish.


	4. Family

**Characters: Justine **

**Pairing: Justine/Holtz**

**Time: Season 3 **

**Warnings: None**

**Additional Notes: I wrote this a while ago and promptly forgot about it because I didn't know how to finish it. Today, while I was sifting through my wide array of unfinished drabbles, I found it. Some toying around and I finished it up (that made it sound much simpler than it actually was). Justine is really fun to play with. I want to write her again sometime… **

**Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns them, not me. **

**Family**

They were going to be a family.

Mother. Father. Son.

They were going to start a new life somewhere in the middle of nowhere. They were going to leave vampires and personal demons behind in the city.

Justine. Daniel. Steven.

A family. And no one was going to suspect them of anything else.

He wasn't going to be a man bent by revenge, so driven that he would freeze himself in time to track down a single vampire. He wasn't going to be the son of two vampires, an impossible result of a tryst. And she wasn't going to be the woman broken by the murder of her sister.

They could have been a normal family. It was the one thing that had restored some hope to her, that had cleared some of that vile hatred and lifted her from the oppressive fog that had pervaded life since her sister's death.

Then he had ruined it. He'd jumped into the portal and gone to some horrible hell dimension. Without her.

And she'd been left behind – hopeless again.

He had betrayed her. He had never intended to simply raise the child in the countryside, forgetting his vendetta with Angelus in order to pursue a new life with her. He was driven by vengeance and hatred alone.

Not justice. Not goodness. Not love.


	5. Love isn't on the Agenda

**Characters: The Senior Partners**

**Pairing: Mention of Wesley/Lilah**

**Time: Season 4/5**

**Warnings: None**

**Additional Notes: Originally I was going to write something with Wesley, maybe pulling Lilah in. Instead this piece tumbled out… Yeah, I never thought I'd write about the Senior Partners either. They probably have a tenuous shape, but for the sake of us mere mortals, they've taken forms to discuss their business. Or maybe they do have solid forms. I don't think they have gender, which is why I refer to them as 'it'. **

**I dare someone to write something with the Senior Partners as main characters. If you do, send me the link. **

**Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns them, not me. **

**Love isn't on the Agenda**

They're all gathered in a conference room, a near replica of the one in Los Angeles. Except here, the windows open to a lovely view of fire ravaging the dead landscape.

"She's a loyal employee. She's smart and ruthless." One of the Partners says, pointing at statistics and graphs. "We can bring her back and have her watch over Angel."

Some of the other Partners nod their heads and imbued with this acceptance, it continues on, "We'll make her our liaison to him. She doesn't need to stay in Hell. She'll serve a larger purpose in Los Angeles. And we know she's entirely dedicated."

One of the Partners snorts and the speaker glares. "Do you have something to say?"

"Yes." An image from the past appears. Wesley's there, rifling through files for a contract. Lilah stands by him. When the scene ends, the room is silent. "Remember this?"

"Yes." The original speaker tries to not look ruffled as everyone sits up in their chairs.

"There's something there. We know it and if we send her back, something may happen. Something unpleasant and unexpected. We don't want that." With a note of finality, the Partner proclaims, "She stays here where she'll never have a chance to betray us."

The conference ends and they recruit Eve.


	6. A Good Man

**Characters: Wesley**

**Pairing: None**

**Setting: From pre-series to NFA **

**Warnings: None**

**Additional Notes: A look at Wesley who has one of the best character arcs in all of television. **

**Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns them, not me. **

**A Good Man**

When Wesley was little, he wanted to be a hero. He dreamed of caped crusaders, knights atop mighty steeds, and Greek warriors battling hydras and chimeras. He even had his superpower picked out; he would emit psychic blasts from his mind. Since he was so smart and all. Or magic, magic worked too.

Then Wesley learned of his Watcher heritage. He threw himself into his studies, determined to prove himself. If he could become a hero, he would make himself proud but more importantly he would make his father proud. It was his ultimate dream.

When he became Head Boy, he expected his father's approval. When he reached the top of his class, he expected to turn and see his father smile and say "that's my son" like all the other parents pointing out lesser achievements. However, it never happened and his father continued to mutter about worthlessness and disappointments.

When he was put in charge of not only one but two Slayers, he was ecstatic. Here was his chance to prove himself. Here was his chance to help the world. Here was his chance to do good. That hope crumbled, crushed by disobedient, smartass Slayers, the deputy mayor's murder, and his own incompetence facing the demon in the tub. Then Faith was dark and comatose while Buffy was done with the Council. Wesley was fired.

Well, if the Council wasn't going to appreciate him, Wesley would pave his own way. He would be a rogue demon hunter. The thought brought a smile to his face and the image of a suave, leather-clad man saving people from evil demons occupied his mind. He would be the dark avenger, lurking in the shadows, riding a motorcycle, the scourge of the underworld. Demons would fall before him and all would know his heroism.

He bought leather, telling himself that he would get used to the pants eventually even though they chafed uncomfortably in the worst of places. He bought weapons, which he hid under his clothing. He looked like the perfect hunter and for a while, he thought he was. It turned out he was a failure at rogue demon hunting and again his heroic dreams turned to dust.

Then Angel took him in and things were looking up. Help the helpless. It was a solid mission, one that promised to fulfill Wesley's life-long goal to be a hero. Plus, he got family, something his lone wolf career had denied him.

And for a while, things were good. He wasn't the leader, but he was vital to the group and he finally felt that he had a purpose. Angel made sure to include him and for that, Wesley was infinitely grateful for. He was the hero he wanted to be, fighting the good fight and doing all the right things.

As with the rest of his life, things fell apart. He thought he was doing the right thing, protecting the child from destiny, but instead he screwed up, the prophecy lies and his friendships tatters. Later, as he lay in bed, he wondered what it was about him that always messed things up. What made him so inadequate, such a failure? His father's words ('_weak_", "_spineless_", "_pathetic_") echoed through his mind and Wesley cringed into his covers, wishing it away.

In the end, Wesley wasn't a hero. He was simply a man, a good man, struggling to do what was right, succeeding and failing along the way.


	7. these scars of mine

**Characters: Angel**

**Pairing: some B/A**

**Setting: post-NFA**

**Warnings: sex (it's not explicit but it's there)**

**Additional Notes: I haven't had much time to write because of college, but now that it's summer, I have free time again! Along with Buffy fic, I'll also be writing Doctor Who fic, so if you're interested, check it out. As for this story, it's a bit of an experimental style and I'm rather pleased with the results. I used a prompt over at angel_hoard on livejournal – forgiveness.**

**Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns them, not me.**

**these scars of mine**

He barely manages to stagger out of the city. His clothes are torn, body bloody, feet heavy, mind sluggish. He should not be alive, but somehow he is. Not just not-dust alive, but real alive. Real heart-thumping, blood-rushing alive.

He is also alone. Gunn was the first to go, too many injuries on too fragile a human body. Illyria next, a blue and red blaze of fury, of vengeance and power. She took down so many, but even gods fall. And then it had been Spike and Angel. Like old times, but now they fought the demons. Spike had turned to dust eventually, but not after taking down hordes of the others. Then he was alone against a force of demons. He clung to existence and fought and killed and destroyed until it was just him among the corpses.

That was when the sun rose and he closed his eyes to burn. He was ready.

There was burning, a deep sensation enveloping his battered body, his skin like fire. And then it was gone and he was still there, blinking at the light. It only took a few moments to take a deep breath in because he needed one, a bit longer to realize that the dead flesh of his heart was beating.

After that, he stumbled his way through burning streets and fallen debris, right out of the city. He only got as far as the nearest gas station before crumbling on the cool tile floor.

He is here now, his eyes closed, his mind focused on the steady beat of his heart. He doesn't want to think about his dead friends or the fact that he's still alive or really anything at all. Instead his thoughts turn to her.

He almost expects her to appear here. Blonde and beautiful, wielding her scythe, bathed in light, his avenging goddess. It would be right, to have her here at his rebirth. But she doesn't come. She doesn't know where he is and anyway, her camp has forsaken his.

(_Later he learns that she did come. But it's late, when the city is already smoking and he's already curled in its aftermath in a dirty station a mile away. She came and she slayed and she looked, but he wasn't there. He was pronounced dead that day._

_But oh, he is so alive. More alive than he's ever been._)

He thinks, with a hacking chuckle, that he will simply die here. His heart will just give up, already tired after centuries of inactivity. It will think he's a waste to keep around, that he is far too hurt to keep going. He almost wants it, wishes for the quiet darkness to fill him and take him from the pain. Death's embrace seems far more like forgiveness than this damning life.

Hours pass. The sun sets and darkness arrives. He still hasn't died. Warily, he pushes himself up and finds that while there is pain, it isn't as bad as he thought. His hands trace along his body, running over ruined, blood-caked skin. Wounds have shut, bones are unbroken, his body is bloody and bruised but it is whole. Sometime in the restoration, during Shanshu, his body was patched up and he didn't even notice (_if only the mind was as easily healed_).

He washes up in the dingy bathroom, stares at his marvelously healed skin, pale under the layers of blood and demon slime. It's glorious and wonderful and strange – he doesn't deserve this cure.

But there are scars. He is not an innocent babe, newly birthed. He is still the broken soldier, still the man chasing redemption, his sins stacked around him and marked into his skin. He traces a particularly nasty one, a long line along his torso. Recalls it as the dragon's handiwork.

His stomach complains for the first time in far too long. He leaves the bathroom and pulls food off shelves. Chips and powdered donuts and beef jerky. Packages are torn apart (_like lives – why is he the only one left? what gave him the right to live when the others perished?_) and he digs in. The tastes are unfamiliar, all sweet and salty and processed, not natural like his old diet. But he savors it all and continues to eat until his stomach hurts for an entirely different reason. He stops and downs a bottle of water before sitting down.

He hasn't let himself think much about the others or the battle, but now, full and clean and almost content, the thoughts rush into his mind.

How hands shot into the air when he asked them if they would stand together. How they had all been willing to risk their lives, he most of all, he had been ready to give it up for everything and everyone. But it wasn't him who gave his life up. The others did, falling like tin soldiers and he their commander, still standing in the end. Standing alone. Commanders were never supposed to live – first to lead, first to die.

He wonders why he's lived. Knows it's nothing but luck. Pure, dumb luck that nothing took his head, that no wood ran through his heart. Luck coupled with natural strength, but then Illyria was stronger and she was gone.

He wonders more than anything why he was given this reward, but he has no answers.

X-X-X

He cannot stay in this Chevron gas station forever. The world spins on and he spins with her. And now his time is limited, every heartbeat a beat closer to a final end. He is no longer an unchanging pillar in the face of a time, a boulder surrounded by flourishing, withering creatures. He is one of those creatures and now he will flourish and wither (_but he will never flourish alone_).

He can go anywhere. He chooses San Francisco.

Los Angeles is too broken, too much like him, too empty now because of the battle. Too many specters haunt the streets, too many memories of better days. New York City, while appealing in its size, is the home of the old him. The one that wouldn't fight and he refuses to ever step back there. Italy, where last he glimpsed her, is too far away. It is another world, one of light and beauty and he isn't sure he deserves that, even with his new humanity.

So San Francisco, foggy and sunny and open-armed, with the next largest population of demons on the West Coast.

He gets an apartment, a new wardrobe (_still black, always black_), a false identity for the records, a bank account. He considers becoming a private investigator but it hurts too much and he can't work it like he once did. He eventually folds and gets a job at an independent bookstore, one that sells magical tomes along with fictional ones. He keeps an axe in his bedroom and goes out hunting nearly every night, but he stays away from the large nests. He comes home damaged most days and slowly learns his limits.

He buys a mirror, excited to see his face all the time, but it's too much (_shadows and lies and blood – Shanshu was supposed to clean him of blood but there is more on him than ever before_) and he throws it out. He can hear Cordelia chiding him for wasting a mirror and then asking if he's okay. He's not, but he lies and says he is. She wouldn't have believed him.

He keeps the refrigerator stocked with food at all times, eggs and peaches and beef cutlets and in the back, a single container of cookie dough fudge mint chip ice cream. He never touches the ice cream, but the rest of the food enters and leaves in an endless cycle of consumption.

One day, as he limps home, his ankle throbbing from a nasty fall that would've meant nothing once upon a time, he sees her. He freezes and watches from a distance. She dances with her opponents, a hurricane of power and glory, light and darkness perfectly interplayed. They're dust within moments and she's turning. She'll spot him in a moment.

He wants to run, would've run, but his ankle is still damaged and more than that, he can't move. He's paralyzed by her and all the things he wants to say to her and all the feelings he has for her. Anger and pain and sadness and love, that last more than anything and it's just too much.

She sees him and she's just as frozen. They watch each other, separated by too much distance but maybe also far too little. He's not sure which it is now.

Then she's moving, running towards him, and she says his name, happy and relieved, a question and an answer and a request, and then her arms are around him and his around her. It doesn't take long for their lips to find one another. They still fit. All this time, all these scars, on both of them, and they still fit like interlocking puzzle pieces.

Eventually she notices and her eyes widen. She stares up at him like he's a dream, like he's not real, a beautiful figment of her imagination. But her imagination would never conjure up such a broken version of him, would never give him so many new scars.

"How?"

"Long story." An out, for her, for him, for them.

"Tell me."

X-X-X

He takes her back to his apartment. They sit at a table, with tea and cookies and all that table (_he flashes back to another table, at another time, and wonders if they'll christen this one too_) between them, and he tells her the story. He tells her of Wolfram and Hart, the final battle in Los Angeles, the light and then the life that filled him. He tells her of his eventual decision to go to San Francisco and his job at the bookstore and his nightly hunts. In return, she tells him of the Slayer assistance in the battle (_too late, he thinks bitterly but doesn't say_), the evacuations, her failed search for him, and her decision to remain in California. She tells him of the coffee shop she works in and the life she's built here.

There are far too many words. They are too tightly wound, too hesitant to start anything, too frightened to imagine a world where they can have a happy-ever-after.

And it isn't. It's too pockmarked and damaged, there are too many friends lost and too many hearts broken and too many tears shed for this to be a fairy tale. He knows he doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve her.

Their words run out. They are both done with their stories and they just sit there. He stares at the last dregs of tea in his cup and wonders what he should do. If he should reach out and take this opportunity or let her go. He knows she isn't an unblemished doll, perfection sitting atop a pedestal. She is damaged and broken and scarred and imperfect just like him and everyone else. But she is still better.

They don't know who makes the first move, but they're both up and their arms are around each other and their lips smash together. They make it to the bed, just barely and only because his apartment is so tiny and because he wants their sorta-first-new time to be special and slow.

It isn't slow. This first time with both of them human (_but it isn't, not really – and he will tell her that story one day too, but not today, not when they are rediscovering each other_), it's messy. Glorious and perfect, because it's them and it's right and it's love and passion, but messy. Bodies move fast, desperate to reclaim and remember and re-everything. There's tongue and teeth and sweat, fast thrusts and pleasure, so much pleasure, for both of them. And then he's collapsing on her, sated and happy.

It isn't long before they start again. It's slower this time, all lingering kisses and sweet caresses and long climbs to ever pleasurable heights. There are whispered "I love yous" and screams of ecstasy and soft moans. She traces his scars with her fingertips and then her lips. They'll still be there when she's done, but it feels like a second chance.

It feels like love and hope and the promise of something better. A life together, imperfect and never free of the past, but good and together.

It feels like absolution.


End file.
